Chapter Thirteen

Chapter ThirteenWith every step Jeremy took, the wooded trail leading inland from Oistins Bay felt more perilous, more alien. Why did the rows of stumps, once so familiar, no longer seem right? Why had he forgotten the spots in the path where the puddles never dried between rains, only congealed to turgid glue? He had ridden it horseback many a time, but now as he trudged up the slope, his boots still wet from the surf, he found he could remember almost nothing at all. This dark tangle of palms and bramble could scarcely be the direction home.But the way home it was. The upland plantation of Anthony Walrond was a wooded, hundred and eighty acre tract that lay one mile inland from the settlement around Oistins Bay— itself a haphazard collection of clapboard taverns and hewn-log tobacco sheds on the southern, windward side of the island. The small harbor at Oistins was host to an occasional Dutch frigate or a small merchant vessel from Virginia or New England, but there was not enough tobacco or cotton to justify a major landing. It was, however, the ideal place to run a small shallop ashore from a ship of the fleet.He reached a familiar arch of palms and turned right, starting the long climb along the weed-clogged path between the trees that led up to the house. As he gripped his flintlock and listened to the warbling of night birds and the menacing clatter of land crabs, he reflected sadly that he was the only man on Barbados who knew precisely what lay in store. He had received a full briefing from the admiral of the fleet aboard theRainbowe. What would Anthony do when he heard?He tried to sort out once more what had happened, beginning with that evening, now only two days past, when Admiral Calvert had passed him the first tankard. . . ."If I may presume to say, it's a genuine honor to share a cup with you, Master Walrond." Calvert's dark eyes had seemed to burn with determination as he eased back into his sea chair and absently adjusted his long white cuffs. He'd been wearing a black doublet with wide white epaulettes and a pristine bib collar, all fairly crackling with starch. "And to finally have a word with a man of breeding from this infernal settlement."Jeremy remembered taking a gingerly sip of the brandy, hoping perhaps it might somehow ease the pain of his humiliation. Still ringing in his ears were the screams of dying men, the volleys of musket fire, the curses of the Roundhead infantry in the longboat. But the liquor only served to sharpen his horrifying memory of the man he had killed less than an hour before, his finger on the trigger of the ornate flintlock now resting so innocently on the oak table between them."The question we all have to ask ourselves is how long this damnable state of affairs can be allowed to go on. Englishmen killing their own kind." Calvert had posed the question more to the air than to the others in the room. Colonel Morris, his face still smeared with powder smoke, had shifted his glance back and forth between them and said nothing. He clearly was impatient at being summoned to the Great Cabin when there were wounded to attend. Why, Jeremy had found himself wondering, was Morris present at all? Where was the brash vice admiral, the man who had wanted him imprisoned below decks? What was the hidden threat behind Calvert's too-cordial smiles? But the admiral betrayed nothing as he continued. "The Civil War is over, may Almighty God forgive us for it, and I say it's past time we started healing the wounds."Jeremy had listened as the silence once more settled around them. For the first time he'd become aware of the creaking of the boards as theRainbowegroaned at anchor. After so much death, he'd found himself thinking, you begin to notice the quietness more. Your senses are honed. Could it be even creatures of the field are the same; does the lowly hare feel life more exquisitely when, hounds baying on its scent, it hovers quivering in the grass?He wondered what he would do if the musket on the table were primed and in his hands. Would he raise it up and destroy this man who had come to conquer the last safe place on earth left for him? As he tried to still the painful throb in his temples, Calvert continued."I'm a plain-speaking seaman, Master Walrond, nothing more. Though my father served in your late king's court, watching his Catholic queen prance amongst her half-dressed Jezebels, I never had any part of it. But I've seen dead men enough whose spilled blood is on that king's head, for all his curls and silks."Calvert had suddenly seemed to remember himself and rose to pour a tankard for Morris. He took another sip from his own, then turned back. "And there's apt to be more killing now, here in the Americas, before this affair's finished. But to what purpose, sirrah? I ask you. We both know the island can't hold out forever. We've got her bottled now with this blockade, and the bottle's corked. What's more, I know for a fact you're all but out of meat and bread, whilst we've made free with all the victuals these interloping Hollanders in Carlisle Bay kindly had waiting to supply us. So my men'll be feasting on capon and port whilst your planters are starving, with nothing in the larder save tobacco and cane. You've never troubled to grow enough edibles here, since you could always buy from these Hollanders, and now it's going to be your downfall." Calvert's eyes had flashed grimly in the lantern light. When Morris had stirred, as though to speak, he'd silenced the commander with a brisk wave of his hand, then continued."But we're not planning just to wait and watch, that I can promise you. Colonel Morris here will tell you he's not going to sleep easy till this island is his. At the break of day he'll commence his first shelling, right here at Jamestown where he's spiked the ordnance. You'll see that spot, breastwork and the rest, turned to rubble by nightfall tomorrow. No, Colonel Morris is not of my mind; he's not a country angler who'd sit and wait for his line to bob. He's a man who'll wade in and take his perch with both hands." Calvert had sighed and risen to open the windows at the stern. Cool air washed over them, bringing with it the moans of wounded men from the deck above. Jeremy noted the windows had been severely damaged by cannon fire and temporarily repaired with wood rather than leaded glass. Calvert listened glumly for a moment, then shoved the windows closed and turned back. "But what's the point of it, Master Walrond, by all that's holy?""You'll never take Barbados, blockade or no." Jeremy had tried to meet the glare in Calvert's eyes. "We'll never surrender to Cromwell and this rabble army.""Ah, but take you we will, sir, or I'm not a Christian. The only question is when." He had paused to frown. "And how? Am I to be forced to humble this place till there's nothing left, to shell her ports, burn her crops? I daresay you're not fully aware what's in store for this island. But it's time somebody heard, and listened. I came here with peace in mind, praying your governor and Assembly would have the sense to recognize the Commonwealth. If I was met with defiance, my orders were to bring Barbados to its knees, man and boy. To see every pocket of resistance ferreted out. More than that, you'd best know I'll not be staying here forever. There'll be others to follow, and that young stalwart you met out on decks, my vice admiral, may well claim the only way to keep the island cooperative is to install a permanent garrison. Believe me when I tell you he'd as soon hang a royalist as bag a partridge. Think on that, what it's apt to be like here if you force me to give him free rein."Jeremy had felt Calvert's eyes bore into him. "But, Master Walrond, I think Barbados, the Americas, deserve better." He glanced toward Morris. "And I'll warrant our commander here feels much the same. Neither of us wants fire and sword for this place. Nor, I feel safe in thinking, does anyone on this island. But someone here has got to understand our purpose and harken to reason, or it's going to be damnation for your settlement and for the rest of the Americas.""Then that's what it'll be, if you think you've got the means to attempt it." Jeremy had pulled himself upright in the chair. "But you try landing on this island again and we'll meet you on the beaches with twice the men you've got, just like tonight.""But why be so foolhardy, lad? I'll grant there're those on this island who have no brief for the Commonwealth, well and good, but know this—all we need from the Americas is cooperation, plain as that; we don't ask servitude." He lowered his voice. "In God's name, sir, this island need merely put an end to its rebellious talk, agree to recognize Parliament, and we can dispense with any more bloodletting."Then Calvert had proceeded to outline a new offer. Its terms were more generous—he'd hammered home time and again—than anyone on the island had any cause to expect. The point he had emphasized most strongly was that Jeremy Walrond stood at the watershed of history. On one side was war, starvation, ignominy; on the other, moderation. And a new future. . . .Ahead the log gables of the Walrond plantation house rose out of the darkness. On his left, through the trees, were the thatched lean-to's of the indentures. A scattering of smoky fires told him some of the servants or their women were still about, frying corn mush for supper. The indentures' few remaining turkeys and pigs were penned now and the pathway was mostly quiet. The only sounds came from clouds of stinging gnats, those pernicious merrywings whose bite could raise a welt for a whole day, their tiny bugles sending a chorus through the dark. In the evening stillness the faint stench of rotting corn husks wafted from a pile in which pigs rooted behind the indentures' quarters, while the more pungent odor of human wastes emanated from the small vegetable patches farther back.He heard occasional voices in the dark, curses from the men and the Irish singsong of women, but no one in the indenture compound saw or heard him pass. Ahead the half-shuttered windows of the plantation house glimmered with the light of candles. It meant, he realized with relief, that Anthony was home, that he'd lit the pewter candelabra hanging over their pine dining table.He stopped for a moment to think and to catch his breath, then moved on past the front portico, toward the servants' entrance at the rear of the house. There was good reason not to announce his arrival publicly. What he had to say was for Anthony, and Anthony alone.As he passed one of the windows he could just make out a figure seated at the table, tankard in hand. The man wore a white kerchief around his neck and a doublet of brown silk, puffed at the shoulders. His dark brown hat rested next to him on the table, its white plume glistening in the dull light.As he pushed on, he noticed that the chimney of the log cookroom in back of the house gave off no smoke, meaning Anthony's servants had already been dismissed for the night.Good. The time could not have been better.Ahead now, just at the corner, was the back doorway. Itwas ajar and unlatched; as usual the help had been careless as they crept away with meat scraps from Anthony's table to season their own bland meal.He paused at the first step and tried to think how he would begin. For no reason at all he found himself staring up at the stars. The heavens in the Caribbees always reminded him of one dusk, many years ago, when he had first seen London from afar—a jewel box of tiny sparklers hinting of riches, intrigues, delicious secrets. What waited there amidst those London lights, he had pondered, those thousands of flickering candles and cab lanterns? Was it as joyful as it seemed? Or was misery there too, as deep and irreducible as his own?That answer never came. But now this canopy of stars above the Caribbees mantled a place of strife and despair wrenching as man could devise.He gently pushed open the split-log door and slipped through. The back hallway was narrow and unlighted, but its walls were shadowed from the blaze of distant candles. He remembered that Anthony always lit extra tapers when he was morose, as though the burning wicks might somehow rekindle his own spirit.As he moved through the rough-hewn archway leading into the main room, he saw the seated figure draw back with a start and reach for the pistol lying on the table."By God, what . . ."Suddenly the chair was kicked away, and the man was rushing forward with open arms. "Jeremy! God's life, it's you! Where in heaven's name have you been?" Anthony wrapped him in his arms. "We heard you'd been taken by Morris and the Roundheads." He drew back and gazed in disbelief and joy. "Are you well, lad? Were you wounded?""I've been with Admiral Calvert on theRainbowe. " He heard his own voice, and its sound almost made him start."You've been . . . ?" Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then you managed to escape! Did you commandeer a longboat? For the love of God, lad, what happened?"What happened?He almost laughed at the question. Would that any man ever knew, he found himself thinking. What ever "happens" . . . save that life flows on, of its own will, and drags you with it willy-nilly?Without a word he carefully settled his flintlock in the corner, next to the rack that held Anthony's own guns—three matchlocks and two flintlocks—and slumped into a vacant chair by the table. "I've a thirst." He glanced distractedly about the room, barely remembering it. For the past two days—now it seemed like an entire age—life had been a ship. "Is there brandy?""Aye, there's a flask in the sideboard, as always." Anthony examined him curiously. Jeremy rarely drank anything stronger than Madeira wine. "What is it, lad? For God's sake let's have it. All of it."With a tankard in his hand, Jeremy discovered that the first part of the story fairly tumbled forth—the Roundhead captain he had killed, the anger, the dismay, the loose discipline of the men in the trench. He even managed to confess straight out the circumstances of his capture, that he had ignored the call to retreat, only to have his musket misfire. Finally he reached the part where he first met Admiral Calvert. Then the tale seemed to die within him."Well, lad, what happened next? You say Morris knew who you were?""Aye, and he spoke of you." Jeremy looked at his brother. "With considerable respect, to tell it truthfully.""A Roundhead schemer, that's Dick Morris, who'd not speak the truth even if he knew how." Anthony leaned forward and examined his tankard. "But I'm beginning to grow fearful he may have the last say in this matter, truth or no." He looked up. "What did you see of their forces, lad? Can they mount another landing?""They can. They will. They've got the Dutch provisions,and Calvert claims they could hold out for weeks. But he says he'll not wait. He plans to invade.""Aye, I'd feared as much. If he does, I say God help us. This damned militia is plagued with more desertions every day. These freeholders seem to think they've done all they need, after Jamestown. They're saying let somebody else fight the next time, when there isn't anybody else. We're having trouble keeping enough men called up just to man the breastworks." He scratched at his eye-patch distractedly. "I suppose we can still meet them if they try another assault, but it'll be a pitched battle, as God is my witness."Jeremy drank off the tankard, rose, and walked shakily to the sideboard. The onion-flask of brandy was still over half full. He wished he could down it all, then and there. "I heard their plans from Admiral Calvert." He finished pouring and set down the bottle. After a deep drink he moved back to his chair, without meeting Anthony's gaze. "I would all the Assembly and Council could have heard what he said.""What did that Roundhead criminal do? Threaten you, and then send you home in hopes you'd somehow cozen me?" Anthony looked up. "Jeremy, that man's a base traitor to his king. His father was in Charles' court, and Edmond Calvert was knighted for no more cause than being George Calvert's son. Then when Prince Rupert and the navy declared their support for the king, he took his ship and defected to Parliament. . . .""It wasn't a threat."Suddenly the words came again. Out poured Calvert's story of Cromwell's plans for the island if it defied him. The Assembly and Council would be dismissed and Powlett set up as governor. A garrison would be installed. Moreover, Powlett might well see fit to reward loyal Puritan islanders with the estates of recalcitrant royalists. Anthony Walrond stood to lose all his acres, again.The elder Walrond listened thoughtfully till the story was finished. Then he slowly drained his tankard. "It's the finalhumiliation. Cromwell, may God damn him, can't rest content merely to strike off the head of his Most Royal Majesty. Now he must needs reduce all that king's loyal subjects to nothing.""But it needn't be." Jeremy put down his tankard. His hands quivered, as though to match the flicker of the candles."There's something you haven't told me yet, isn't there, lad? You haven't said why they set you ashore. You didn't escape, did you?" Anthony studied him with sudden dismay. "I'll wager you were sent back. Why was it?""Aye. The reason is this." He rose and reached into the pocket of his doublet. The letter was still there, waiting, its wax seal warm against his shirt. "It's for you."He found himself wishing it had been lost, though he believed with all his heart the message meant salvation. It was a gift of God. Yet something about it now seemed the work of the devil."What is it, Jeremy?" Anthony stared at the envelope. "Some kind of threat to try and frighten me too?" He looked up and bristled. "They can spare their ink and paper.""Admiral Calvert asked me to deliver this. He and Captain Morris said that whilst you were their staunchest foe, they also knew you for a gentleman. They said you were the only man on the island they felt they could trust. That you alone could prevent this place being brought to ruin by Cromwell—which would probably mean fighting all over the Americas for years, when they just want to settle this and be gone.""Are they asking me to be a traitor to the island?""They've made an offer, a private offer. They said the Assembly can't be made to reason, that it'd sooner bring ruination to the island than agree to a compromise.""This is damned knavery. To presume I'd be party to disloyalty.""But think on't." Jeremy drank again and felt his boldness renewed. "Why should you sacrifice yourself helping the greedy Puritans on this island? The Council scorns to listen to you, andyou've still not been elected to the Assembly. I'd say you've received naught but contempt, from the day you arrived." His voice rose. "Make no mistake on it, there'll be a new regime here after the island surrenders, which it'll have to eventually. Right now, Calvert and Morris just want to keep Barbados out of the hands of this man Powlett."Anthony turned the envelope in his hand. "So what does this cursed letter of Calvert's say?""Merely that you're a reasonable man, that you're surely sensible of the ruin a total war would mean. And that he's got terms to offer you that are truly in the best interest of Barbados, if only you'd give them ear.""I suppose he made you privy to these most generous terms." Anthony tossed the letter onto the rough pine boards in front of him."If you'd use your influence to work for peace, and convince your Windward Regiment here in this parish to cooperate, he'll take steps to thwart the designs of Powlett. If the island laid down its arms, then there'd be no garrison of troops. He'll guarantee it. And there'd be amnesty for all the planters.""It's more damn'd Roundhead lies. That's not the voice of Cromwell. That's the voice of an admiral who fears he can't take this place by force. So he'd try doing it by deceit." Anthony's face reddened. "Does the man have the cheek to think I've no scruples whatsoever?""But he's promised more. He'd form a new Council and make you its head. He and you'd appoint the others together. Of course they'd needs be men of moderate stripe, who'd stood for peace. But you could both work together to ensure the treaty was kept. Powlett might still have to serve as governor for a time, but he'd not be able to do anything without the approval of your new Council.""It's all a deception, lad." Anthony sighed wistfully. "Would it were true. You're young, and I fear to say still a bit gullible. These are promises made in the moonlight and shrugged away at sunrise.""I'm old enough to know there's been enough killing." Jeremy choked back a lump of guilt that rose in his chest. "But the letter's not addressed to me. It's to you. What harm in reading it? Morris would like to arrange a meeting, unarmed, to discuss its terms.""A meeting!" Anthony seemed to spit out the words."Aye, here along the coast at Oistins. He's to come ashore by longboat tomorrow night, alone, to hear what you have to say." Jeremy took another drink of brandy and its fire burned through him. "There's no harm in that, for sure. It could be the beginning of peace.""Lad, talk sense. They'll not hold to these conditions you've described. Once the island is disarmed, it'll be the end for every free man here.""He said he'd give you all the terms in writing, signed." Jeremy noticed his tankard was dry. He wanted to rise for more brandy, but the room swirled about him. "It's our chance, don't you see. If Barbados goes down fighting, there'll be no terms. No concessions. Just more needless deaths. If you don't hear them out, it'll be on our heads.""I'll not do it.""But what's the Council ever done for you? For that matter, what has Bedford done?"Anthony stared into the empty tankard in his hand and his voice grew bitter. "He's let Katherine take up company with the criminal who robbed our ship at Nevis, whilst we're at this very time negotiating a marriage portion. And made me a laughing stock in the bargain, if you must know." He looked up. "In truth, that's the most Dalby Bedford's done for me as of late."Jeremy felt his face grow flush with embarrassment. "Then I say you owe it to decency to hear what Morris has to offer tomorrow night. Otherwise there'll just be more killing. Next it'll be starvation too. Please. I entreat you to think on it."Anthony picked up the letter and turned it in his hand. "Liberty or death." His voice was strangely subdued. "That's what the Assembly claimed they wanted. But it turns out that was just talk. They don't even want liberty enough to stand and fight for it, that's all too clear now."He pushed open the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded the paper. Jeremy watched his face as he began to read.My Lord, I send this to you as one who is master of a great deal of reason, and truly sensible of the ruin of the island if it should longer be obstinate. Only after appeal to your Lordship could I satisfy mine own conscience that I had done my duty in avoiding what I can the shedding of blood and the ruin of this island; for although I may by some be looked upon as an Enemy, yet really I do you office of a Friend in urging your Lordship and those engaged with you to judge of the Necessity of your Lordship's and their giving their due obedience to the State of England or else to suffer yourselves to be swallowed up in the destruction which a little time must inevitably bring upon you, which I cannot suppose rational men would wish.My Lord, may it please you to know that I am not ignorant of the Interests of this Island, and very well know the impossibility of its subsistence without the Patronage of England. It is clear to me that God will own us in our attempts against this island (as He hath hitherto done), and yet to show you that I would endeavour what I can to avoid the shedding of blood and the loss of estates, I have thought fit to send this to your Lordship, to offer you such reasonable conditions as may be honourable for the State to give. . . .Anthony studied the terms carefully; they were just as described by Jeremy. Calvert was offering a leniency most uncharacteristic of Cromwell. The island would be beholden to Parliament, to be sure, but it would not be humiliated.Moreover, he suddenly thought, when Charles II moved to restore the monarchy, this island's strength and arms would be intact, ready to help throw off the yoke of Cromwell's oppression. With a surge of pleasure he realized this could well be a strategic retreat, in the finest military sense. If Calvert were willing to honor these generous terms, the fight could still be won another day.Particularly if Anthony Walrond controlled the new Council of Barbados.Chapter Fourteen"I've always called it 'Little Island,' since nobody's ever troubled giving it a name." She reined in her mare and directed Winston's gaze toward the atoll that lay a few hundred yards off the coast. The waters along the shore shimmered a perfect blue in the bright midday sun. "At low tide, like now, you can wade a horse right through the shallows.""Does anybody ever come out here?" He drew in his gelding and stared across the narrow waterway. The island was a curious anomaly; there was a high rocky peak at its center, the lookout Katherine had described, and yet the shores were light sand and verdant with palms. Little Island was less than a quarter mile across and shaped like an egg, almost as though God had seen fit to set down a tiny replica of Barbados here off its southern shore. Looking west you could see the forested coast of the mother island, while to the east there was the road leading to Oistins and the Atlantic beyond."Never. I've ridden out here maybe a dozen times, but there's never been a soul."He turned and surveyed the coast. "What else is around this place?""Nothing much, really. . . . Just the Walrond plantation, up the coast, inland a mile or so, about halfway between here and Oistins.""Good Christ! I'm beginning to understand it all." He laughed wistfully. "I'll wager you've probably come out here with that gallant of yours." Then he looked at her, his eyes sardonic. "Didn't he get his fancy silk breeches wet riding across the shallows?""Hugh, not another word. Try to understand." She turned and studied him. These occasional flares of jealousy; did he mean them? She wasn't sure. Maybe it was all just a game to him, playing at being in love. But then, she asked herself, what was she doing? Perhaps wanting to have everything, a lover and a husband. But why couldn't you? Besides, Hugh would be gone soon. Better to enjoy being in love with him while she could. "I mean that. And Anthony must never learn we came here."He was silent for a moment, letting the metrical splash of the surf mark the time. Somehow she'd managed to get away with her little game so far. Anthony Walrond was too busy rallying his royalists to take much notice of anything else. Or maybe he was willing just to turn his blind eye to it all."Katy, tell me something. How, exactly, am I supposed to fit into all this? You think you can have an amour with me and then wed a rich royalist when I'm gone? I suppose you figure he'll be governor here someday himself, so you won't even have to move out of the compound.""Hugh, I'm in love with you. There, I said it. But I'm going to marry Anthony. It's the sensible thing for me to do. Love needn't have anything to do with that." She urged her horse forward as a white egret swooped past, then turned back brightly. "Let's ride on over. The island's truly a lovely spot, whether you decide to use it or not."He stared after her in amazement. Maybe she was right. Maybe life was just being sensible, taking whatever you could. But that was also a game two could play. So back to business. The island.Time was growing short, and he knew there was no longer any means to finish lading the stores on theDefiancewithouteveryone in Bridgetown suspecting something was afoot. The frigate was aground directly in front of the main tobacco sheds, in full view of every tavern around the harbor. But there was still a way to assemble what was needed—using an old trick he had learned years ago. You pull together your stores in some secluded haven, to be picked up the night you make your break.It had been a week since the invasion at Jamestown, and now what seemed to be a battle of nerves was underway. What else could it be? A new set of terms had been sent ashore by the commander of the fleet, terms the Assembly had revised and sent back, only to have them rejected. After that, there had been quiet. Was Barbados being left to starve quietly in the sun?Or, he'd begun to wonder, was something else afoot? Maybe even a betrayal? Could it be some Puritan sympathizers in the Assembly were trying to negotiate a surrender behind Bedford's back? Even Katherine was worried; and the governor had taken the unprecedented step of arming his servants. A turn for the worse seemed all too likely, given the condition of the island's morale. But she'd insisted they not talk about it today.She touched Coral lightly across the rump with her crop, and the mare stepped eagerly into the crystalline blue water of the shallows, happy to escape the horseflies nipping at its shanks. Winston spurred his mount and splashed after her. Ahead of them, Little Island stood like a tropical mirage in the sea."You're right about one thing. I'm damned if this place isn't close to paradise. There's not a lovelier spot in the Caribbees." The bottom was mostly gravel, with only an occasional rivulet of sand. "See over there? It looks to be a school of angelfish." He was pointing off to the left, toward an iridescent mass of turquoise and yellow that shimmered just beneath the surface. "I had no idea there was any place like this along here. Tell me, are you sure there's enough draft on the windward side for me to put in and lade?""When we reach those rocks up ahead, we can tie the horses and walk the shore. Then I suppose you can decide for yourself, Captain."She watched as the glimmer of fish darted forward. To be free like that! Able to go anywhere, do anything. "I remember one place where the bottom seems to drop almost straight down. You could probably anchor there.""Good thing we came early." He glanced up to the sky, then at her. She detected a smile. "This may take a while."What was he thinking? Did he feel the freedom of this place too? She loved being here alone with him, just the two of them. What a proper scandal it would make if anybody found out. "Maybe the real reason I told you about this spot was to lure you out here. And then keep you here all to myself."He started to laugh, then stopped. "I'd probably be an easy captive, betwixt your designs and the guns of the English navy.""Oh, for God's sake don't be so dreary and melancholy. I'm sure you'll be gone from Barbados soon enough, never fear. If that's what you want." She sensed she had pressed him too hard. "But maybe you'll remember me once in a while, after you've sailed off to get yourself killed by the Spaniards.""Well, I'm not done with Barbados yet, I can promise you that."What did he mean? She wished he'd continue, but then his horse stumbled against a rock and he glanced down, distracted. When he looked up again, they were already nearing the shallows of the island."If I can get a good cart and a couple of draft horses, I'll wager I can bring the other stores I'll need out here with no trouble at all. It's mainly hogsheads of water we're short now, and maybe a few more barrels of salt pork." His gelding emerged from the water, threw back its head and snorted, then broke into a prance along the sandy beach. "No more than two days' work, the way I figure it. I'll have a few of the indentures give my boys a hand."Her mare had already trotted ahead, into the shade of a tall palm whose trunk emerged from behind a rocky embankment. She slipped from the saddle and glanced back at Winston. He was still staring down the shoreline in delight."If you'd care to tether your frolicking horse, Captain, we can walk around to the other side.""Why don't we swim it?" He pulled his mount alongside hers and dropped onto the sand, his eyes suddenly sparkling. While the horse nuzzled curiously at the salty wetness on its legs, he collected the reins and kneeled down to begin hobbling it. "Can you make it that far?""Have you gone mad from the heat!" They were alone, miles from anything. He was all hers now, no gunnery mates, no seamen. To swim! What a sensible . . . no, romantic idea.He laughed and began to tie a leather thong to her mare's forelegs. "Katy, you should know better than to try being coy with me. I'll wager you can swim like a fish. You probably learned for no other reason than it's not ladylike." He finished with the mare and rose up, facing her. His face was like fine leather against the blue of the sky. "Besides, I think I'd like seeing you out of that bodice.""Remember, you're not on your quarterdeck today, so I needn't harken to your every wish." She slipped her hands beneath his jerkin and ran them slowly across the muscles on his sides. The feel of him reminded her of their first night together. As she ran her fingers upward, toward his shoulders, his lips came down to hers."You might get used to it if you tried it once." His voice was almost a whisper. As he kissed her he wrapped her in his arms and deftly pulled the knot at the base of her bodice. "So get yourself out of this thing and let's try the water." He wiggled the laces open and slipped it over her head. She wore nothing beneath, and her breasts emerged milky-white in the sunshine. He paused to examine her, then continued, "Why stand about in this heat when there's a cool lagoon waiting?"He stepped away, slipped off his jerkin, and tossed it across his saddle. He was reaching down to unbuckle his boots when she stopped him. She dropped to her knees, slipped her hands around his waist, and nuzzled her face against his thighs. Then she released him and bent down. "Let me unbuckle your boots.""What?""I enjoy doing things for you sometimes."He seemed startled; she'd suspected he wouldn't like it. But he didn't pull away. "Come on then." He quickly stepped out of the boots. As she laid them against the trunk of the palm, she noticed they were still smeared with powder residue from that day at the Jamestown breastwork. "We're going to see how far around this island we can swim. Pretend that's an official order from the quarterdeck." He pulled his pistols from his waist and secured them on his saddle. Then he unbuckled his belt and glanced at her. "I don't know about you, but 1 don't plan to try it in my breeches." He solemnly began slipping off his canvas riding trousers.She watched for a moment, then reached for the waist of her skirt.She found herself half wishing he couldn't see her like this, plain and in the sunlight. She liked her body, but would he? Would he notice that her legs were a trifle too slim? Or that her stomach wasn't as round as it should be?Now he was leading the way down the incline toward the lagoon. The white sand was a warm, textured cushion against their bare feet as they waded into the placid waters. Around the island, on the windward side, the waves crashed against the shore, but here the lagoon remained serene. As she noticed the brisk wind against her skin, she suddenly didn't care what he thought. She felt like the most beautiful woman alive.When she was younger, she could ride and shoot as well as any lad on the island; then one day she awoke to find herself cloaked in a prison of curves and bulges, with a litany in her ears about all the things she wasn't supposed to be seen doing anymore. It infuriated her. Why did men have things so much easier?Like Winston. He moved the same way he handled his flintlock pistols, with a thoughtless poise. As he walked now, his shoulders were slightly forward and his broad back seemed to balance his stride. But, even more, she loved the hard rhythm of his haunches, trim and rippled with muscles. She stopped to watch as he splashed into the shallows.God forgive me, she thought, how I do adore him. What I'd most like right now is just to enfold him, to capture him in my arms. And never let . . .Good God, what am I saying?The water was deliciously cool, and it deepened quickly. Before she knew, she felt the rhythm of the waves against her thighs."Katy, the time has come." He turned back and admired her for a second, then thumped a spray of water across her breasts. "Let's see if you really can swim." Abruptly he leaned forward, dipped one shoulder, and stroked powerfully. The curves of his body blended with the ripples as he effortlessly glided across the surface. A startled triggerfish darted past, orange in the sun. He stroked again, then yelled over his shoulder, "I'm still not sure I can always believe everything you say.""Nor I you, Hugh. Though truly you say little enough." She leaned into the water, fresh and clean against her face. She gave a kick and another stroke and she was beside him. The sea around them seemed a world apart from the bondage of convention. He was right for wanting to swim. "So today, to repay me for showing you this spot, I want you to tell me everything, all the things you've been holding back.""Unlike you, who's held nothing back? Like this island and what it means to you?"She just ignored him, the best way to handle Hugh when he was like this, and stroked again, staying even, the taste of salt on her lips. The white sands of the shoreline were gliding past now, and behind them the palms nodded lazily in the sun. Then she rolled over and kicked, drifting through the blue. He rolled over too and reached to take her hand. They slid across the surface together as one body.She was lost in the quiet and calm, almost dreaming, when she saw his face rise up. "How far can you see from those rocks up there?" He was pointing toward the craggy rise in the center of the island. "I'd like to go up after a while and have a look.""You want to know everything about this place. All at once. Is that the only thing you care about?""Not quite." He pulled next to her. "I'll grant you've proved you can swim. And damned well." He smiled wryly. "It's doubtless a good thing to know how to do. We may all be needing to swim out of here soon, God help us.""Not a word, remember your promise." Her eyes flashed as she flung a handful of water. Then she looked past him, at the white sand and the line of green palms. "Let's go ashore for a while. That spot up there, at the trees—it's too beautiful to pass."The afternoon sun had begun to slant from the west as they waded out onto the sparkling sand, his arm circled around her waist. The breeze urged a sprightly nip against their skin. "Hugh, I love you. Truly." She leaned against him to feel his warmth. "I don't know what I should do."He was subdued and quiet as they stepped around a gleaming pile of shells. Then he stopped and quietly enfolded her in his arms. "It's only fair to tell you I've never before felt about a woman the way I feel about you." He kissed her softly. "The troubling part is, I ought to know better."He turned and led her on in silence, till they reached the shade of a low palm. She dropped down onto the grass and watched him settle beside her. A large conch shell lay nearby, like a petrified flower. She picked it up and held it toward the sun, admiring its iridescent colors, then tossed it back onto the grass and looked at him. "I meant it when I said I wanted you to tell me everything."He glanced up and traced his fingertips across the gentle curve at the tops of her white breasts. "Are you sure you want to hear it?""Yes, I do." She thought she detected a softness in his eyes, almost a yielding.He leaned back in the grass. "I guess you think there's a lot to tell, yet somehow it all adds up to nothing. To lying here under a palm, on an empty island, with a price on my head in England and little to show for all the years." He looked out to sea and shaded his eyes as he studied a sail at the horizon. "It seems I'm something different to everybody. So which story do you want to hear?""Why not try the real one?" She pushed him onto his back and raised on her elbow to study his face. It was certainly older than its years. "Why won't you ever tell me about what happened when you first came out here? What was it about that time that troubles you so much?""It's not a pretty tale. Before I came, I never even thought much about the New World." He smiled at the irony of it now. "It all started when I was apprenticed and shipped out to the Caribbean for not being royalist enough.""Where to?""Well . . ." He paused automatically, then decided to continue. "In truth it was Tortuga. Back when the Providence Company had a settlement on the island.""But wasn't that burned out by the Spaniards? We all heard about it. I thought everybody there was killed. How did you survive?""As it happens, I'd been sort of banished by then. Since I didn't get along too well with the Puritans there, they'd sentme over to the north side of Hispaniola, to hunt. Probably saved my life. That's where I was when the Spaniards came.""On Hispaniola?" She stared at him. "Do you mean to say you were once one of . . .""The Cow-Killers." It was said slowly and casually. He waited to see how she would respond, but there was only a brief glimmer of surprise in her eyes."Then what some people say is true. I'd never believed it till now." She laughed. "I suppose I should be shocked, but I'm not."He smiled guardedly. "Well, in those days they only hunted cattle. Until toward the last." He paused a moment, then looked at her sharply. "But, yes, that's who I was with. However, Katy, don't credit quite everything you may hear about me from the Walronds.""But you left them. At least that tells me something about you." She held his hand lightly against her lips. The calluses along the palm were still soft from the water. "Why did you finally decide to go?"He pulled her next to him and kissed her on the mouth, twice. Then he ran his fingers down her body, across her smooth waist, till he reached the mound of light chestnut hair at her thighs. "I've never told anyone, Katy. I'm not even sure I want to tell you now." He continued with his fingertips, on down her skin."Why won't you tell me?" She passed her hand across his chest. Beneath the bronze she could feel the faint pumping of his heart. "I want to know all about you, to have all that to think about when you're gone. We're so much alike, in so many ways. I feel I have a right to know even the smallest little things about you.""I tried to shoot one of them. One of the Cow-Killers." He turned and ripped off a blade of grass, then crumpled it in his hand and looked away."Well, I'm sure that's not the first time such a thing has happened. I expect you had good reason. After all . . .""The difference was who I tried to kill." He rolled over and stared up at the vacant sky. It was deep blue, flawless."What do you mean? Who was it?""You probably wouldn't know." He glanced at her. "Ever hear of a man who goes by the name of Jacques le Basque?""Good God." She glanced at him in astonishment. "Isn't he the one who's been pillaging and killing Spaniards in the Windward Passage for years now? In Bridgetown they say the Spaniards call him the most bloodthirsty man in the Caribbean. I'm surprised he let you get away with it.""I didn't escape entirely unscathed." Winston laughed. "You see, he was leader of the Cow-Killers back then. I suppose he still is.""So what happened?""One foggy morning we had a small falling out and I tried a pistol on him. It misfired." He pushed back her hair and kissed her on the cheek. "Did you know, Katy, that the sun somehow changes the color of your eyes? Makes them bluer?"She grabbed his hand and pushed him back up. "You're trying to shift the topic. I know your tricks. Don't do that with me. Tell me the rest.""What do you suppose? After I made free to kill him, he naturally returned the favor." Winston stroked the scar on his cheek. "His pistol ball came this close to taking off my head. That's when I thought it healthy to part company with him and his lads." He traced his tongue down her body and lightly probed a nipple. It blushed pink, then began to harden under his touch."No, you don't. Not yet. You'll make me lose track of things." She almost didn't want him to know how much she delighted in the feel of his lips. It would give him too much power over her. Could she, she wondered, ever have the same power over him? She had never yet kissed him all over, the way she wanted, but she was gathering courage for it. What would he do when she did?She reached up and cradled his face in her hands. The tongue that had been circling her nipple drew away and slowly licked one of her fingers. She felt herself surrendering again, and quickly drew her hand back. "Talk to me some more. Tell me why you tried to kill him.""Who?""The man you just said." She frowned, knowing well his way of teasing. Yes, Hugh Winston was quite a tease. In everything. "Just now. This Jacques le Basque.""Him? Why did I try to kill him?" He pecked at her nose, and she sensed a tenseness in his mouth. "I scarcely remember. It's as though the fog that moming never really cleared from my mind. As best I recall, it had something to do with a frigate." He smiled, the lines in his face softening. Then he slipped an arm beneath her and drew her next to him. Her skin was warm from the sun. "Still, days like this make up for a lot in life. Just being here. With you. Trouble is, I worry I'm beginning to trust you. More than I probably ought.""I think I trust you too." She turned and kissed him on the lips, testing their feel. The tenseness had vanished, as mysteriously as it had come. She kissed him again, now with his lips meeting hers, and she wanted to crush them against her own. Gone now, all the talk. He had won. He had made her forget herself once again. "I also love you, and I know you well enough by now to know for sure that's unwise."She moved across him, her breasts against his chest. Would he continue to hold back, to keep something to himself, something he never seemed willing—or able—to give? Only recently had she become aware of it. As she learned to surrender to him more and more fully, she had slowly come to realize that only a part of him was there for her.Then the quiet of the lagoon settled around them as their bodies molded together, a perfect knowing.He pulled her against his chest, hard, as he knew she liked to be held. And she moved against him, instinctively. She felt herself wanting him, ready for that most exquisite moment of all. She slipped slowly downward, while he moved carefully to meet her. Her soft breasts were still pillowed against his chest.She gasped lightly, a barely discernible intake of breath, and closed her eyes as she slowly received him. Her eyes flooded with delight and she rose up, till her breasts swung above him like twin bells. "This is how I want to stay. Forever." She bent back down and kissed him full on the mouth. "Say you'll never move.""Not even like this . . . ?"Now the feel of her and the scent of her, as she enclosed him and worked her thighs against him, fully awoke his own desire. It had begun, that need both to give and to take, and he sensed in her an intensity matching his own. So alien, yet so alike.Gradually he became aware of a quickening of her motions against him, and he knew that, at this instant, he had momentarily ceased to exist for her; he had lost her to something deeper. She leaned closer, not to clasp him but to thrust her breasts against him, wordlessly telling him to touch the hard buds of her nipples. Then the rhythms that rippled her belly shifted downward, strong and driven. With small sounds of anticipation she again rose above him, then suddenly cried aloud and grasped his body with her hands, to draw him into her totally.This was the moment when together they knew that nothing else mattered. As he felt himself giving way to her, he felt her gasp and again thrust against him, as though to seize and hold the ecstasy that had already begun to drift beyond them.But it had been fleeting, ephemeral, and now they were once more merely man and woman, in each other's arms, amidst the sand,and gently waving palms. Finally she reached up and took his hands from her soft breasts, her eyes resigned and bewildered. He drew her to him and kissed her gently, to comfort her for that moment now lost to time.Then he lifted her in his arms and lay her against the soft grass, her body open to him. He wanted this woman, more than anything.The afternoon sky was azure now, the hue of purest lapis lazuli, and its scattering of soft white clouds was mirrored in the placid waters of the lagoon. He held her cradled in his arms, half dozing, her face warm against his chest."Time." His voice sounded lightly against her ear."What, darling?""It's time we had a look around." He sat up and kissed her. "We've got to go back where we left the horses, and get our clothes and boots." He turned and gazed toward the dark outcrop of rocks that rose up from the center of the island. "Then I'd like to go up there, to try and get some idea what the shoreline looks like on the windward side.""Want to swim back?" She stared up at him, then rubbed her face against his chest. As she rose she was holding his hand and almost dancing around him."You swim back if you like. For myself, I think I'm getting a bit old for such. What if I just walked the shore?""Oh, you're old, to be sure. You're ancient. But mostly in your head." She grabbed his hand. "Come on.""Well, just part way." He rose abruptly, then reached over and hoisted her into his arms. He bounced her lightly, as though she were no more weighty than a bundle of cane, and laughed at her gasp of surprise. "What do you know! Maybe I'm not as decrepit as I thought." He turned and strode toward the shoreline, still cradling her against his chest."Put me down. You're just showing off.""That's right." They were waist deep when he balanced her momentarily high above the water and gave a shove. She landed with a splash and disappeared, only to resurface sputtering. "Careful, Katy, or you'll frighten the angelfish." He ducked the handful of water she flung at him and dived head first into the sea. A moment later he emerged, stroking. "Come on then, you wanted to swim. Shall we race?"

With every step Jeremy took, the wooded trail leading inland from Oistins Bay felt more perilous, more alien. Why did the rows of stumps, once so familiar, no longer seem right? Why had he forgotten the spots in the path where the puddles never dried between rains, only congealed to turgid glue? He had ridden it horseback many a time, but now as he trudged up the slope, his boots still wet from the surf, he found he could remember almost nothing at all. This dark tangle of palms and bramble could scarcely be the direction home.

But the way home it was. The upland plantation of Anthony Walrond was a wooded, hundred and eighty acre tract that lay one mile inland from the settlement around Oistins Bay— itself a haphazard collection of clapboard taverns and hewn-log tobacco sheds on the southern, windward side of the island. The small harbor at Oistins was host to an occasional Dutch frigate or a small merchant vessel from Virginia or New England, but there was not enough tobacco or cotton to justify a major landing. It was, however, the ideal place to run a small shallop ashore from a ship of the fleet.

He reached a familiar arch of palms and turned right, starting the long climb along the weed-clogged path between the trees that led up to the house. As he gripped his flintlock and listened to the warbling of night birds and the menacing clatter of land crabs, he reflected sadly that he was the only man on Barbados who knew precisely what lay in store. He had received a full briefing from the admiral of the fleet aboard theRainbowe. What would Anthony do when he heard?

He tried to sort out once more what had happened, beginning with that evening, now only two days past, when Admiral Calvert had passed him the first tankard. . . .

"If I may presume to say, it's a genuine honor to share a cup with you, Master Walrond." Calvert's dark eyes had seemed to burn with determination as he eased back into his sea chair and absently adjusted his long white cuffs. He'd been wearing a black doublet with wide white epaulettes and a pristine bib collar, all fairly crackling with starch. "And to finally have a word with a man of breeding from this infernal settlement."

Jeremy remembered taking a gingerly sip of the brandy, hoping perhaps it might somehow ease the pain of his humiliation. Still ringing in his ears were the screams of dying men, the volleys of musket fire, the curses of the Roundhead infantry in the longboat. But the liquor only served to sharpen his horrifying memory of the man he had killed less than an hour before, his finger on the trigger of the ornate flintlock now resting so innocently on the oak table between them.

"The question we all have to ask ourselves is how long this damnable state of affairs can be allowed to go on. Englishmen killing their own kind." Calvert had posed the question more to the air than to the others in the room. Colonel Morris, his face still smeared with powder smoke, had shifted his glance back and forth between them and said nothing. He clearly was impatient at being summoned to the Great Cabin when there were wounded to attend. Why, Jeremy had found himself wondering, was Morris present at all? Where was the brash vice admiral, the man who had wanted him imprisoned below decks? What was the hidden threat behind Calvert's too-cordial smiles? But the admiral betrayed nothing as he continued. "The Civil War is over, may Almighty God forgive us for it, and I say it's past time we started healing the wounds."

Jeremy had listened as the silence once more settled around them. For the first time he'd become aware of the creaking of the boards as theRainbowegroaned at anchor. After so much death, he'd found himself thinking, you begin to notice the quietness more. Your senses are honed. Could it be even creatures of the field are the same; does the lowly hare feel life more exquisitely when, hounds baying on its scent, it hovers quivering in the grass?

He wondered what he would do if the musket on the table were primed and in his hands. Would he raise it up and destroy this man who had come to conquer the last safe place on earth left for him? As he tried to still the painful throb in his temples, Calvert continued.

"I'm a plain-speaking seaman, Master Walrond, nothing more. Though my father served in your late king's court, watching his Catholic queen prance amongst her half-dressed Jezebels, I never had any part of it. But I've seen dead men enough whose spilled blood is on that king's head, for all his curls and silks."

Calvert had suddenly seemed to remember himself and rose to pour a tankard for Morris. He took another sip from his own, then turned back. "And there's apt to be more killing now, here in the Americas, before this affair's finished. But to what purpose, sirrah? I ask you. We both know the island can't hold out forever. We've got her bottled now with this blockade, and the bottle's corked. What's more, I know for a fact you're all but out of meat and bread, whilst we've made free with all the victuals these interloping Hollanders in Carlisle Bay kindly had waiting to supply us. So my men'll be feasting on capon and port whilst your planters are starving, with nothing in the larder save tobacco and cane. You've never troubled to grow enough edibles here, since you could always buy from these Hollanders, and now it's going to be your downfall." Calvert's eyes had flashed grimly in the lantern light. When Morris had stirred, as though to speak, he'd silenced the commander with a brisk wave of his hand, then continued.

"But we're not planning just to wait and watch, that I can promise you. Colonel Morris here will tell you he's not going to sleep easy till this island is his. At the break of day he'll commence his first shelling, right here at Jamestown where he's spiked the ordnance. You'll see that spot, breastwork and the rest, turned to rubble by nightfall tomorrow. No, Colonel Morris is not of my mind; he's not a country angler who'd sit and wait for his line to bob. He's a man who'll wade in and take his perch with both hands." Calvert had sighed and risen to open the windows at the stern. Cool air washed over them, bringing with it the moans of wounded men from the deck above. Jeremy noted the windows had been severely damaged by cannon fire and temporarily repaired with wood rather than leaded glass. Calvert listened glumly for a moment, then shoved the windows closed and turned back. "But what's the point of it, Master Walrond, by all that's holy?"

"You'll never take Barbados, blockade or no." Jeremy had tried to meet the glare in Calvert's eyes. "We'll never surrender to Cromwell and this rabble army."

"Ah, but take you we will, sir, or I'm not a Christian. The only question is when." He had paused to frown. "And how? Am I to be forced to humble this place till there's nothing left, to shell her ports, burn her crops? I daresay you're not fully aware what's in store for this island. But it's time somebody heard, and listened. I came here with peace in mind, praying your governor and Assembly would have the sense to recognize the Commonwealth. If I was met with defiance, my orders were to bring Barbados to its knees, man and boy. To see every pocket of resistance ferreted out. More than that, you'd best know I'll not be staying here forever. There'll be others to follow, and that young stalwart you met out on decks, my vice admiral, may well claim the only way to keep the island cooperative is to install a permanent garrison. Believe me when I tell you he'd as soon hang a royalist as bag a partridge. Think on that, what it's apt to be like here if you force me to give him free rein."

Jeremy had felt Calvert's eyes bore into him. "But, Master Walrond, I think Barbados, the Americas, deserve better." He glanced toward Morris. "And I'll warrant our commander here feels much the same. Neither of us wants fire and sword for this place. Nor, I feel safe in thinking, does anyone on this island. But someone here has got to understand our purpose and harken to reason, or it's going to be damnation for your settlement and for the rest of the Americas."

"Then that's what it'll be, if you think you've got the means to attempt it." Jeremy had pulled himself upright in the chair. "But you try landing on this island again and we'll meet you on the beaches with twice the men you've got, just like tonight."

"But why be so foolhardy, lad? I'll grant there're those on this island who have no brief for the Commonwealth, well and good, but know this—all we need from the Americas is cooperation, plain as that; we don't ask servitude." He lowered his voice. "In God's name, sir, this island need merely put an end to its rebellious talk, agree to recognize Parliament, and we can dispense with any more bloodletting."

Then Calvert had proceeded to outline a new offer. Its terms were more generous—he'd hammered home time and again—than anyone on the island had any cause to expect. The point he had emphasized most strongly was that Jeremy Walrond stood at the watershed of history. On one side was war, starvation, ignominy; on the other, moderation. And a new future. . . .

Ahead the log gables of the Walrond plantation house rose out of the darkness. On his left, through the trees, were the thatched lean-to's of the indentures. A scattering of smoky fires told him some of the servants or their women were still about, frying corn mush for supper. The indentures' few remaining turkeys and pigs were penned now and the pathway was mostly quiet. The only sounds came from clouds of stinging gnats, those pernicious merrywings whose bite could raise a welt for a whole day, their tiny bugles sending a chorus through the dark. In the evening stillness the faint stench of rotting corn husks wafted from a pile in which pigs rooted behind the indentures' quarters, while the more pungent odor of human wastes emanated from the small vegetable patches farther back.

He heard occasional voices in the dark, curses from the men and the Irish singsong of women, but no one in the indenture compound saw or heard him pass. Ahead the half-shuttered windows of the plantation house glimmered with the light of candles. It meant, he realized with relief, that Anthony was home, that he'd lit the pewter candelabra hanging over their pine dining table.

He stopped for a moment to think and to catch his breath, then moved on past the front portico, toward the servants' entrance at the rear of the house. There was good reason not to announce his arrival publicly. What he had to say was for Anthony, and Anthony alone.

As he passed one of the windows he could just make out a figure seated at the table, tankard in hand. The man wore a white kerchief around his neck and a doublet of brown silk, puffed at the shoulders. His dark brown hat rested next to him on the table, its white plume glistening in the dull light.

As he pushed on, he noticed that the chimney of the log cookroom in back of the house gave off no smoke, meaning Anthony's servants had already been dismissed for the night.

Good. The time could not have been better.

Ahead now, just at the corner, was the back doorway. It

was ajar and unlatched; as usual the help had been careless as they crept away with meat scraps from Anthony's table to season their own bland meal.

He paused at the first step and tried to think how he would begin. For no reason at all he found himself staring up at the stars. The heavens in the Caribbees always reminded him of one dusk, many years ago, when he had first seen London from afar—a jewel box of tiny sparklers hinting of riches, intrigues, delicious secrets. What waited there amidst those London lights, he had pondered, those thousands of flickering candles and cab lanterns? Was it as joyful as it seemed? Or was misery there too, as deep and irreducible as his own?

That answer never came. But now this canopy of stars above the Caribbees mantled a place of strife and despair wrenching as man could devise.

He gently pushed open the split-log door and slipped through. The back hallway was narrow and unlighted, but its walls were shadowed from the blaze of distant candles. He remembered that Anthony always lit extra tapers when he was morose, as though the burning wicks might somehow rekindle his own spirit.

As he moved through the rough-hewn archway leading into the main room, he saw the seated figure draw back with a start and reach for the pistol lying on the table.

"By God, what . . ."

Suddenly the chair was kicked away, and the man was rushing forward with open arms. "Jeremy! God's life, it's you! Where in heaven's name have you been?" Anthony wrapped him in his arms. "We heard you'd been taken by Morris and the Roundheads." He drew back and gazed in disbelief and joy. "Are you well, lad? Were you wounded?"

"I've been with Admiral Calvert on theRainbowe. " He heard his own voice, and its sound almost made him start.

"You've been . . . ?" Anthony's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then you managed to escape! Did you commandeer a longboat? For the love of God, lad, what happened?"

What happened?

He almost laughed at the question. Would that any man ever knew, he found himself thinking. What ever "happens" . . . save that life flows on, of its own will, and drags you with it willy-nilly?

Without a word he carefully settled his flintlock in the corner, next to the rack that held Anthony's own guns—three matchlocks and two flintlocks—and slumped into a vacant chair by the table. "I've a thirst." He glanced distractedly about the room, barely remembering it. For the past two days—now it seemed like an entire age—life had been a ship. "Is there brandy?"

"Aye, there's a flask in the sideboard, as always." Anthony examined him curiously. Jeremy rarely drank anything stronger than Madeira wine. "What is it, lad? For God's sake let's have it. All of it."

With a tankard in his hand, Jeremy discovered that the first part of the story fairly tumbled forth—the Roundhead captain he had killed, the anger, the dismay, the loose discipline of the men in the trench. He even managed to confess straight out the circumstances of his capture, that he had ignored the call to retreat, only to have his musket misfire. Finally he reached the part where he first met Admiral Calvert. Then the tale seemed to die within him.

"Well, lad, what happened next? You say Morris knew who you were?"

"Aye, and he spoke of you." Jeremy looked at his brother. "With considerable respect, to tell it truthfully."

"A Roundhead schemer, that's Dick Morris, who'd not speak the truth even if he knew how." Anthony leaned forward and examined his tankard. "But I'm beginning to grow fearful he may have the last say in this matter, truth or no." He looked up. "What did you see of their forces, lad? Can they mount another landing?"

"They can. They will. They've got the Dutch provisions,

and Calvert claims they could hold out for weeks. But he says he'll not wait. He plans to invade."

"Aye, I'd feared as much. If he does, I say God help us. This damned militia is plagued with more desertions every day. These freeholders seem to think they've done all they need, after Jamestown. They're saying let somebody else fight the next time, when there isn't anybody else. We're having trouble keeping enough men called up just to man the breastworks." He scratched at his eye-patch distractedly. "I suppose we can still meet them if they try another assault, but it'll be a pitched battle, as God is my witness."

Jeremy drank off the tankard, rose, and walked shakily to the sideboard. The onion-flask of brandy was still over half full. He wished he could down it all, then and there. "I heard their plans from Admiral Calvert." He finished pouring and set down the bottle. After a deep drink he moved back to his chair, without meeting Anthony's gaze. "I would all the Assembly and Council could have heard what he said."

"What did that Roundhead criminal do? Threaten you, and then send you home in hopes you'd somehow cozen me?" Anthony looked up. "Jeremy, that man's a base traitor to his king. His father was in Charles' court, and Edmond Calvert was knighted for no more cause than being George Calvert's son. Then when Prince Rupert and the navy declared their support for the king, he took his ship and defected to Parliament. . . ."

"It wasn't a threat."

Suddenly the words came again. Out poured Calvert's story of Cromwell's plans for the island if it defied him. The Assembly and Council would be dismissed and Powlett set up as governor. A garrison would be installed. Moreover, Powlett might well see fit to reward loyal Puritan islanders with the estates of recalcitrant royalists. Anthony Walrond stood to lose all his acres, again.

The elder Walrond listened thoughtfully till the story was finished. Then he slowly drained his tankard. "It's the final

humiliation. Cromwell, may God damn him, can't rest content merely to strike off the head of his Most Royal Majesty. Now he must needs reduce all that king's loyal subjects to nothing."

"But it needn't be." Jeremy put down his tankard. His hands quivered, as though to match the flicker of the candles.

"There's something you haven't told me yet, isn't there, lad? You haven't said why they set you ashore. You didn't escape, did you?" Anthony studied him with sudden dismay. "I'll wager you were sent back. Why was it?"

"Aye. The reason is this." He rose and reached into the pocket of his doublet. The letter was still there, waiting, its wax seal warm against his shirt. "It's for you."

He found himself wishing it had been lost, though he believed with all his heart the message meant salvation. It was a gift of God. Yet something about it now seemed the work of the devil.

"What is it, Jeremy?" Anthony stared at the envelope. "Some kind of threat to try and frighten me too?" He looked up and bristled. "They can spare their ink and paper."

"Admiral Calvert asked me to deliver this. He and Captain Morris said that whilst you were their staunchest foe, they also knew you for a gentleman. They said you were the only man on the island they felt they could trust. That you alone could prevent this place being brought to ruin by Cromwell—which would probably mean fighting all over the Americas for years, when they just want to settle this and be gone."

"Are they asking me to be a traitor to the island?"

"They've made an offer, a private offer. They said the Assembly can't be made to reason, that it'd sooner bring ruination to the island than agree to a compromise."

"This is damned knavery. To presume I'd be party to disloyalty."

"But think on't." Jeremy drank again and felt his boldness renewed. "Why should you sacrifice yourself helping the greedy Puritans on this island? The Council scorns to listen to you, and

you've still not been elected to the Assembly. I'd say you've received naught but contempt, from the day you arrived." His voice rose. "Make no mistake on it, there'll be a new regime here after the island surrenders, which it'll have to eventually. Right now, Calvert and Morris just want to keep Barbados out of the hands of this man Powlett."

Anthony turned the envelope in his hand. "So what does this cursed letter of Calvert's say?"

"Merely that you're a reasonable man, that you're surely sensible of the ruin a total war would mean. And that he's got terms to offer you that are truly in the best interest of Barbados, if only you'd give them ear."

"I suppose he made you privy to these most generous terms." Anthony tossed the letter onto the rough pine boards in front of him.

"If you'd use your influence to work for peace, and convince your Windward Regiment here in this parish to cooperate, he'll take steps to thwart the designs of Powlett. If the island laid down its arms, then there'd be no garrison of troops. He'll guarantee it. And there'd be amnesty for all the planters."

"It's more damn'd Roundhead lies. That's not the voice of Cromwell. That's the voice of an admiral who fears he can't take this place by force. So he'd try doing it by deceit." Anthony's face reddened. "Does the man have the cheek to think I've no scruples whatsoever?"

"But he's promised more. He'd form a new Council and make you its head. He and you'd appoint the others together. Of course they'd needs be men of moderate stripe, who'd stood for peace. But you could both work together to ensure the treaty was kept. Powlett might still have to serve as governor for a time, but he'd not be able to do anything without the approval of your new Council."

"It's all a deception, lad." Anthony sighed wistfully. "Would it were true. You're young, and I fear to say still a bit gullible. These are promises made in the moonlight and shrugged away at sunrise."

"I'm old enough to know there's been enough killing." Jeremy choked back a lump of guilt that rose in his chest. "But the letter's not addressed to me. It's to you. What harm in reading it? Morris would like to arrange a meeting, unarmed, to discuss its terms."

"A meeting!" Anthony seemed to spit out the words.

"Aye, here along the coast at Oistins. He's to come ashore by longboat tomorrow night, alone, to hear what you have to say." Jeremy took another drink of brandy and its fire burned through him. "There's no harm in that, for sure. It could be the beginning of peace."

"Lad, talk sense. They'll not hold to these conditions you've described. Once the island is disarmed, it'll be the end for every free man here."

"He said he'd give you all the terms in writing, signed." Jeremy noticed his tankard was dry. He wanted to rise for more brandy, but the room swirled about him. "It's our chance, don't you see. If Barbados goes down fighting, there'll be no terms. No concessions. Just more needless deaths. If you don't hear them out, it'll be on our heads."

"I'll not do it."

"But what's the Council ever done for you? For that matter, what has Bedford done?"

Anthony stared into the empty tankard in his hand and his voice grew bitter. "He's let Katherine take up company with the criminal who robbed our ship at Nevis, whilst we're at this very time negotiating a marriage portion. And made me a laughing stock in the bargain, if you must know." He looked up. "In truth, that's the most Dalby Bedford's done for me as of late."

Jeremy felt his face grow flush with embarrassment. "Then I say you owe it to decency to hear what Morris has to offer tomorrow night. Otherwise there'll just be more killing. Next it'll be starvation too. Please. I entreat you to think on it."

Anthony picked up the letter and turned it in his hand. "Liberty or death." His voice was strangely subdued. "That's what the Assembly claimed they wanted. But it turns out that was just talk. They don't even want liberty enough to stand and fight for it, that's all too clear now."

He pushed open the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded the paper. Jeremy watched his face as he began to read.

My Lord, I send this to you as one who is master of a great deal of reason, and truly sensible of the ruin of the island if it should longer be obstinate. Only after appeal to your Lordship could I satisfy mine own conscience that I had done my duty in avoiding what I can the shedding of blood and the ruin of this island; for although I may by some be looked upon as an Enemy, yet really I do you office of a Friend in urging your Lordship and those engaged with you to judge of the Necessity of your Lordship's and their giving their due obedience to the State of England or else to suffer yourselves to be swallowed up in the destruction which a little time must inevitably bring upon you, which I cannot suppose rational men would wish.

My Lord, may it please you to know that I am not ignorant of the Interests of this Island, and very well know the impossibility of its subsistence without the Patronage of England. It is clear to me that God will own us in our attempts against this island (as He hath hitherto done), and yet to show you that I would endeavour what I can to avoid the shedding of blood and the loss of estates, I have thought fit to send this to your Lordship, to offer you such reasonable conditions as may be honourable for the State to give. . . .

Anthony studied the terms carefully; they were just as described by Jeremy. Calvert was offering a leniency most uncharacteristic of Cromwell. The island would be beholden to Parliament, to be sure, but it would not be humiliated.

Moreover, he suddenly thought, when Charles II moved to restore the monarchy, this island's strength and arms would be intact, ready to help throw off the yoke of Cromwell's oppression. With a surge of pleasure he realized this could well be a strategic retreat, in the finest military sense. If Calvert were willing to honor these generous terms, the fight could still be won another day.

Particularly if Anthony Walrond controlled the new Council of Barbados.

"I've always called it 'Little Island,' since nobody's ever troubled giving it a name." She reined in her mare and directed Winston's gaze toward the atoll that lay a few hundred yards off the coast. The waters along the shore shimmered a perfect blue in the bright midday sun. "At low tide, like now, you can wade a horse right through the shallows."

"Does anybody ever come out here?" He drew in his gelding and stared across the narrow waterway. The island was a curious anomaly; there was a high rocky peak at its center, the lookout Katherine had described, and yet the shores were light sand and verdant with palms. Little Island was less than a quarter mile across and shaped like an egg, almost as though God had seen fit to set down a tiny replica of Barbados here off its southern shore. Looking west you could see the forested coast of the mother island, while to the east there was the road leading to Oistins and the Atlantic beyond.

"Never. I've ridden out here maybe a dozen times, but there's never been a soul."

He turned and surveyed the coast. "What else is around this place?"

"Nothing much, really. . . . Just the Walrond plantation, up the coast, inland a mile or so, about halfway between here and Oistins."

"Good Christ! I'm beginning to understand it all." He laughed wistfully. "I'll wager you've probably come out here with that gallant of yours." Then he looked at her, his eyes sardonic. "Didn't he get his fancy silk breeches wet riding across the shallows?"

"Hugh, not another word. Try to understand." She turned and studied him. These occasional flares of jealousy; did he mean them? She wasn't sure. Maybe it was all just a game to him, playing at being in love. But then, she asked herself, what was she doing? Perhaps wanting to have everything, a lover and a husband. But why couldn't you? Besides, Hugh would be gone soon. Better to enjoy being in love with him while she could. "I mean that. And Anthony must never learn we came here."

He was silent for a moment, letting the metrical splash of the surf mark the time. Somehow she'd managed to get away with her little game so far. Anthony Walrond was too busy rallying his royalists to take much notice of anything else. Or maybe he was willing just to turn his blind eye to it all.

"Katy, tell me something. How, exactly, am I supposed to fit into all this? You think you can have an amour with me and then wed a rich royalist when I'm gone? I suppose you figure he'll be governor here someday himself, so you won't even have to move out of the compound."

"Hugh, I'm in love with you. There, I said it. But I'm going to marry Anthony. It's the sensible thing for me to do. Love needn't have anything to do with that." She urged her horse forward as a white egret swooped past, then turned back brightly. "Let's ride on over. The island's truly a lovely spot, whether you decide to use it or not."

He stared after her in amazement. Maybe she was right. Maybe life was just being sensible, taking whatever you could. But that was also a game two could play. So back to business. The island.

Time was growing short, and he knew there was no longer any means to finish lading the stores on theDefiancewithout

everyone in Bridgetown suspecting something was afoot. The frigate was aground directly in front of the main tobacco sheds, in full view of every tavern around the harbor. But there was still a way to assemble what was needed—using an old trick he had learned years ago. You pull together your stores in some secluded haven, to be picked up the night you make your break.

It had been a week since the invasion at Jamestown, and now what seemed to be a battle of nerves was underway. What else could it be? A new set of terms had been sent ashore by the commander of the fleet, terms the Assembly had revised and sent back, only to have them rejected. After that, there had been quiet. Was Barbados being left to starve quietly in the sun?

Or, he'd begun to wonder, was something else afoot? Maybe even a betrayal? Could it be some Puritan sympathizers in the Assembly were trying to negotiate a surrender behind Bedford's back? Even Katherine was worried; and the governor had taken the unprecedented step of arming his servants. A turn for the worse seemed all too likely, given the condition of the island's morale. But she'd insisted they not talk about it today.

She touched Coral lightly across the rump with her crop, and the mare stepped eagerly into the crystalline blue water of the shallows, happy to escape the horseflies nipping at its shanks. Winston spurred his mount and splashed after her. Ahead of them, Little Island stood like a tropical mirage in the sea.

"You're right about one thing. I'm damned if this place isn't close to paradise. There's not a lovelier spot in the Caribbees." The bottom was mostly gravel, with only an occasional rivulet of sand. "See over there? It looks to be a school of angelfish." He was pointing off to the left, toward an iridescent mass of turquoise and yellow that shimmered just beneath the surface. "I had no idea there was any place like this along here. Tell me, are you sure there's enough draft on the windward side for me to put in and lade?"

"When we reach those rocks up ahead, we can tie the horses and walk the shore. Then I suppose you can decide for yourself, Captain."

She watched as the glimmer of fish darted forward. To be free like that! Able to go anywhere, do anything. "I remember one place where the bottom seems to drop almost straight down. You could probably anchor there."

"Good thing we came early." He glanced up to the sky, then at her. She detected a smile. "This may take a while."

What was he thinking? Did he feel the freedom of this place too? She loved being here alone with him, just the two of them. What a proper scandal it would make if anybody found out. "Maybe the real reason I told you about this spot was to lure you out here. And then keep you here all to myself."

He started to laugh, then stopped. "I'd probably be an easy captive, betwixt your designs and the guns of the English navy."

"Oh, for God's sake don't be so dreary and melancholy. I'm sure you'll be gone from Barbados soon enough, never fear. If that's what you want." She sensed she had pressed him too hard. "But maybe you'll remember me once in a while, after you've sailed off to get yourself killed by the Spaniards."

"Well, I'm not done with Barbados yet, I can promise you that."

What did he mean? She wished he'd continue, but then his horse stumbled against a rock and he glanced down, distracted. When he looked up again, they were already nearing the shallows of the island.

"If I can get a good cart and a couple of draft horses, I'll wager I can bring the other stores I'll need out here with no trouble at all. It's mainly hogsheads of water we're short now, and maybe a few more barrels of salt pork." His gelding emerged from the water, threw back its head and snorted, then broke into a prance along the sandy beach. "No more than two days' work, the way I figure it. I'll have a few of the indentures give my boys a hand."

Her mare had already trotted ahead, into the shade of a tall palm whose trunk emerged from behind a rocky embankment. She slipped from the saddle and glanced back at Winston. He was still staring down the shoreline in delight.

"If you'd care to tether your frolicking horse, Captain, we can walk around to the other side."

"Why don't we swim it?" He pulled his mount alongside hers and dropped onto the sand, his eyes suddenly sparkling. While the horse nuzzled curiously at the salty wetness on its legs, he collected the reins and kneeled down to begin hobbling it. "Can you make it that far?"

"Have you gone mad from the heat!" They were alone, miles from anything. He was all hers now, no gunnery mates, no seamen. To swim! What a sensible . . . no, romantic idea.

He laughed and began to tie a leather thong to her mare's forelegs. "Katy, you should know better than to try being coy with me. I'll wager you can swim like a fish. You probably learned for no other reason than it's not ladylike." He finished with the mare and rose up, facing her. His face was like fine leather against the blue of the sky. "Besides, I think I'd like seeing you out of that bodice."

"Remember, you're not on your quarterdeck today, so I needn't harken to your every wish." She slipped her hands beneath his jerkin and ran them slowly across the muscles on his sides. The feel of him reminded her of their first night together. As she ran her fingers upward, toward his shoulders, his lips came down to hers.

"You might get used to it if you tried it once." His voice was almost a whisper. As he kissed her he wrapped her in his arms and deftly pulled the knot at the base of her bodice. "So get yourself out of this thing and let's try the water." He wiggled the laces open and slipped it over her head. She wore nothing beneath, and her breasts emerged milky-white in the sunshine. He paused to examine her, then continued, "Why stand about in this heat when there's a cool lagoon waiting?"

He stepped away, slipped off his jerkin, and tossed it across his saddle. He was reaching down to unbuckle his boots when she stopped him. She dropped to her knees, slipped her hands around his waist, and nuzzled her face against his thighs. Then she released him and bent down. "Let me unbuckle your boots."

"What?"

"I enjoy doing things for you sometimes."

He seemed startled; she'd suspected he wouldn't like it. But he didn't pull away. "Come on then." He quickly stepped out of the boots. As she laid them against the trunk of the palm, she noticed they were still smeared with powder residue from that day at the Jamestown breastwork. "We're going to see how far around this island we can swim. Pretend that's an official order from the quarterdeck." He pulled his pistols from his waist and secured them on his saddle. Then he unbuckled his belt and glanced at her. "I don't know about you, but 1 don't plan to try it in my breeches." He solemnly began slipping off his canvas riding trousers.

She watched for a moment, then reached for the waist of her skirt.

She found herself half wishing he couldn't see her like this, plain and in the sunlight. She liked her body, but would he? Would he notice that her legs were a trifle too slim? Or that her stomach wasn't as round as it should be?

Now he was leading the way down the incline toward the lagoon. The white sand was a warm, textured cushion against their bare feet as they waded into the placid waters. Around the island, on the windward side, the waves crashed against the shore, but here the lagoon remained serene. As she noticed the brisk wind against her skin, she suddenly didn't care what he thought. She felt like the most beautiful woman alive.

When she was younger, she could ride and shoot as well as any lad on the island; then one day she awoke to find herself cloaked in a prison of curves and bulges, with a litany in her ears about all the things she wasn't supposed to be seen doing anymore. It infuriated her. Why did men have things so much easier?

Like Winston. He moved the same way he handled his flintlock pistols, with a thoughtless poise. As he walked now, his shoulders were slightly forward and his broad back seemed to balance his stride. But, even more, she loved the hard rhythm of his haunches, trim and rippled with muscles. She stopped to watch as he splashed into the shallows.

God forgive me, she thought, how I do adore him. What I'd most like right now is just to enfold him, to capture him in my arms. And never let . . .

Good God, what am I saying?

The water was deliciously cool, and it deepened quickly. Before she knew, she felt the rhythm of the waves against her thighs.

"Katy, the time has come." He turned back and admired her for a second, then thumped a spray of water across her breasts. "Let's see if you really can swim." Abruptly he leaned forward, dipped one shoulder, and stroked powerfully. The curves of his body blended with the ripples as he effortlessly glided across the surface. A startled triggerfish darted past, orange in the sun. He stroked again, then yelled over his shoulder, "I'm still not sure I can always believe everything you say."

"Nor I you, Hugh. Though truly you say little enough." She leaned into the water, fresh and clean against her face. She gave a kick and another stroke and she was beside him. The sea around them seemed a world apart from the bondage of convention. He was right for wanting to swim. "So today, to repay me for showing you this spot, I want you to tell me everything, all the things you've been holding back."

"Unlike you, who's held nothing back? Like this island and what it means to you?"

She just ignored him, the best way to handle Hugh when he was like this, and stroked again, staying even, the taste of salt on her lips. The white sands of the shoreline were gliding past now, and behind them the palms nodded lazily in the sun. Then she rolled over and kicked, drifting through the blue. He rolled over too and reached to take her hand. They slid across the surface together as one body.

She was lost in the quiet and calm, almost dreaming, when she saw his face rise up. "How far can you see from those rocks up there?" He was pointing toward the craggy rise in the center of the island. "I'd like to go up after a while and have a look."

"You want to know everything about this place. All at once. Is that the only thing you care about?"

"Not quite." He pulled next to her. "I'll grant you've proved you can swim. And damned well." He smiled wryly. "It's doubtless a good thing to know how to do. We may all be needing to swim out of here soon, God help us."

"Not a word, remember your promise." Her eyes flashed as she flung a handful of water. Then she looked past him, at the white sand and the line of green palms. "Let's go ashore for a while. That spot up there, at the trees—it's too beautiful to pass."

The afternoon sun had begun to slant from the west as they waded out onto the sparkling sand, his arm circled around her waist. The breeze urged a sprightly nip against their skin. "Hugh, I love you. Truly." She leaned against him to feel his warmth. "I don't know what I should do."

He was subdued and quiet as they stepped around a gleaming pile of shells. Then he stopped and quietly enfolded her in his arms. "It's only fair to tell you I've never before felt about a woman the way I feel about you." He kissed her softly. "The troubling part is, I ought to know better."

He turned and led her on in silence, till they reached the shade of a low palm. She dropped down onto the grass and watched him settle beside her. A large conch shell lay nearby, like a petrified flower. She picked it up and held it toward the sun, admiring its iridescent colors, then tossed it back onto the grass and looked at him. "I meant it when I said I wanted you to tell me everything."

He glanced up and traced his fingertips across the gentle curve at the tops of her white breasts. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yes, I do." She thought she detected a softness in his eyes, almost a yielding.

He leaned back in the grass. "I guess you think there's a lot to tell, yet somehow it all adds up to nothing. To lying here under a palm, on an empty island, with a price on my head in England and little to show for all the years." He looked out to sea and shaded his eyes as he studied a sail at the horizon. "It seems I'm something different to everybody. So which story do you want to hear?"

"Why not try the real one?" She pushed him onto his back and raised on her elbow to study his face. It was certainly older than its years. "Why won't you ever tell me about what happened when you first came out here? What was it about that time that troubles you so much?"

"It's not a pretty tale. Before I came, I never even thought much about the New World." He smiled at the irony of it now. "It all started when I was apprenticed and shipped out to the Caribbean for not being royalist enough."

"Where to?"

"Well . . ." He paused automatically, then decided to continue. "In truth it was Tortuga. Back when the Providence Company had a settlement on the island."

"But wasn't that burned out by the Spaniards? We all heard about it. I thought everybody there was killed. How did you survive?"

"As it happens, I'd been sort of banished by then. Since I didn't get along too well with the Puritans there, they'd sent

me over to the north side of Hispaniola, to hunt. Probably saved my life. That's where I was when the Spaniards came."

"On Hispaniola?" She stared at him. "Do you mean to say you were once one of . . ."

"The Cow-Killers." It was said slowly and casually. He waited to see how she would respond, but there was only a brief glimmer of surprise in her eyes.

"Then what some people say is true. I'd never believed it till now." She laughed. "I suppose I should be shocked, but I'm not."

He smiled guardedly. "Well, in those days they only hunted cattle. Until toward the last." He paused a moment, then looked at her sharply. "But, yes, that's who I was with. However, Katy, don't credit quite everything you may hear about me from the Walronds."

"But you left them. At least that tells me something about you." She held his hand lightly against her lips. The calluses along the palm were still soft from the water. "Why did you finally decide to go?"

He pulled her next to him and kissed her on the mouth, twice. Then he ran his fingers down her body, across her smooth waist, till he reached the mound of light chestnut hair at her thighs. "I've never told anyone, Katy. I'm not even sure I want to tell you now." He continued with his fingertips, on down her skin.

"Why won't you tell me?" She passed her hand across his chest. Beneath the bronze she could feel the faint pumping of his heart. "I want to know all about you, to have all that to think about when you're gone. We're so much alike, in so many ways. I feel I have a right to know even the smallest little things about you."

"I tried to shoot one of them. One of the Cow-Killers." He turned and ripped off a blade of grass, then crumpled it in his hand and looked away.

"Well, I'm sure that's not the first time such a thing has happened. I expect you had good reason. After all . . ."

"The difference was who I tried to kill." He rolled over and stared up at the vacant sky. It was deep blue, flawless.

"What do you mean? Who was it?"

"You probably wouldn't know." He glanced at her. "Ever hear of a man who goes by the name of Jacques le Basque?"

"Good God." She glanced at him in astonishment. "Isn't he the one who's been pillaging and killing Spaniards in the Windward Passage for years now? In Bridgetown they say the Spaniards call him the most bloodthirsty man in the Caribbean. I'm surprised he let you get away with it."

"I didn't escape entirely unscathed." Winston laughed. "You see, he was leader of the Cow-Killers back then. I suppose he still is."

"So what happened?"

"One foggy morning we had a small falling out and I tried a pistol on him. It misfired." He pushed back her hair and kissed her on the cheek. "Did you know, Katy, that the sun somehow changes the color of your eyes? Makes them bluer?"

She grabbed his hand and pushed him back up. "You're trying to shift the topic. I know your tricks. Don't do that with me. Tell me the rest."

"What do you suppose? After I made free to kill him, he naturally returned the favor." Winston stroked the scar on his cheek. "His pistol ball came this close to taking off my head. That's when I thought it healthy to part company with him and his lads." He traced his tongue down her body and lightly probed a nipple. It blushed pink, then began to harden under his touch.

"No, you don't. Not yet. You'll make me lose track of things." She almost didn't want him to know how much she delighted in the feel of his lips. It would give him too much power over her. Could she, she wondered, ever have the same power over him? She had never yet kissed him all over, the way she wanted, but she was gathering courage for it. What would he do when she did?

She reached up and cradled his face in her hands. The tongue that had been circling her nipple drew away and slowly licked one of her fingers. She felt herself surrendering again, and quickly drew her hand back. "Talk to me some more. Tell me why you tried to kill him."

"Who?"

"The man you just said." She frowned, knowing well his way of teasing. Yes, Hugh Winston was quite a tease. In everything. "Just now. This Jacques le Basque."

"Him? Why did I try to kill him?" He pecked at her nose, and she sensed a tenseness in his mouth. "I scarcely remember. It's as though the fog that moming never really cleared from my mind. As best I recall, it had something to do with a frigate." He smiled, the lines in his face softening. Then he slipped an arm beneath her and drew her next to him. Her skin was warm from the sun. "Still, days like this make up for a lot in life. Just being here. With you. Trouble is, I worry I'm beginning to trust you. More than I probably ought."

"I think I trust you too." She turned and kissed him on the lips, testing their feel. The tenseness had vanished, as mysteriously as it had come. She kissed him again, now with his lips meeting hers, and she wanted to crush them against her own. Gone now, all the talk. He had won. He had made her forget herself once again. "I also love you, and I know you well enough by now to know for sure that's unwise."

She moved across him, her breasts against his chest. Would he continue to hold back, to keep something to himself, something he never seemed willing—or able—to give? Only recently had she become aware of it. As she learned to surrender to him more and more fully, she had slowly come to realize that only a part of him was there for her.

Then the quiet of the lagoon settled around them as their bodies molded together, a perfect knowing.

He pulled her against his chest, hard, as he knew she liked to be held. And she moved against him, instinctively. She felt herself wanting him, ready for that most exquisite moment of all. She slipped slowly downward, while he moved carefully to meet her. Her soft breasts were still pillowed against his chest.

She gasped lightly, a barely discernible intake of breath, and closed her eyes as she slowly received him. Her eyes flooded with delight and she rose up, till her breasts swung above him like twin bells. "This is how I want to stay. Forever." She bent back down and kissed him full on the mouth. "Say you'll never move."

"Not even like this . . . ?"

Now the feel of her and the scent of her, as she enclosed him and worked her thighs against him, fully awoke his own desire. It had begun, that need both to give and to take, and he sensed in her an intensity matching his own. So alien, yet so alike.

Gradually he became aware of a quickening of her motions against him, and he knew that, at this instant, he had momentarily ceased to exist for her; he had lost her to something deeper. She leaned closer, not to clasp him but to thrust her breasts against him, wordlessly telling him to touch the hard buds of her nipples. Then the rhythms that rippled her belly shifted downward, strong and driven. With small sounds of anticipation she again rose above him, then suddenly cried aloud and grasped his body with her hands, to draw him into her totally.

This was the moment when together they knew that nothing else mattered. As he felt himself giving way to her, he felt her gasp and again thrust against him, as though to seize and hold the ecstasy that had already begun to drift beyond them.

But it had been fleeting, ephemeral, and now they were once more merely man and woman, in each other's arms, amidst the sand,and gently waving palms. Finally she reached up and took his hands from her soft breasts, her eyes resigned and bewildered. He drew her to him and kissed her gently, to comfort her for that moment now lost to time.

Then he lifted her in his arms and lay her against the soft grass, her body open to him. He wanted this woman, more than anything.

The afternoon sky was azure now, the hue of purest lapis lazuli, and its scattering of soft white clouds was mirrored in the placid waters of the lagoon. He held her cradled in his arms, half dozing, her face warm against his chest.

"Time." His voice sounded lightly against her ear.

"What, darling?"

"It's time we had a look around." He sat up and kissed her. "We've got to go back where we left the horses, and get our clothes and boots." He turned and gazed toward the dark outcrop of rocks that rose up from the center of the island. "Then I'd like to go up there, to try and get some idea what the shoreline looks like on the windward side."

"Want to swim back?" She stared up at him, then rubbed her face against his chest. As she rose she was holding his hand and almost dancing around him.

"You swim back if you like. For myself, I think I'm getting a bit old for such. What if I just walked the shore?"

"Oh, you're old, to be sure. You're ancient. But mostly in your head." She grabbed his hand. "Come on."

"Well, just part way." He rose abruptly, then reached over and hoisted her into his arms. He bounced her lightly, as though she were no more weighty than a bundle of cane, and laughed at her gasp of surprise. "What do you know! Maybe I'm not as decrepit as I thought." He turned and strode toward the shoreline, still cradling her against his chest.

"Put me down. You're just showing off."

"That's right." They were waist deep when he balanced her momentarily high above the water and gave a shove. She landed with a splash and disappeared, only to resurface sputtering. "Careful, Katy, or you'll frighten the angelfish." He ducked the handful of water she flung at him and dived head first into the sea. A moment later he emerged, stroking. "Come on then, you wanted to swim. Shall we race?"

Back to IndexNext